


Frilly, Lacy, Deep-Scarlet Panties

by gaialux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Clothed Sex, Community: spnkink_meme, Crack, Crossdressing, Hand Jobs, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:04:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's laundry day at the Bat Cave, and Dean's always been good at improvisation. Mostly it's just commando!Sam getting all sexually frustrated. Oh, who am I kidding? It's crack, pure and simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frilly, Lacy, Deep-Scarlet Panties

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kink prompt: It's laundry day at the batcave. How do we know? Sammy's not sporting his forest-green boxer briefs above the waistband of his jeans. In fact, he's not wearing anything under the denim. Just want some commando!Sam enjoying the denim against his dick, the way it feels when he walks and moves, does normal things but each brush of material makes him shiver. Bonus points and some beer if Dean finds out and has some fun with it. Optional side-kick of knowing it's laundry day at the batcave when the only thing sticking over the top of Dean's jeans when he sits down is a frilly, lacy, deep-scarlet waistband that isn't from any kind of mens' underwear ;D.
> 
> Supernatural does not belong to me. This piece of fiction was written for entertainment purposes only, no profit is gained.

The thing about the Men of Letters Headquarters is that it’s home. Or at least that’s how Sam’s considering it. Closest thing he’s had to a home since Stanford, and even then that place was college-allocated, live-mouth-to-hand rent payments, and he always knew - sooner or later - he’d have to leave it.  
  
Here? Something tells him they’re going to make it last.  
  
Only it’s not without problems. Like, well, the whole idea of living in a home. And how someone seems to have neglected to give Dean the memo of what housekeeping and that it  _needs to be done_. So nothing works efficiently, and they’ve got no  _method_  or  _mode_  to pretty much anything in life. In motels you had housekeeping, just bundle up the sheets and throw your dirty towels on top and you’re good to go. They took a lot of things for granted, Sam knows that. This place actually requires some thought.  
  
The lack of this thought is the reason Sam’s got no clean boxer-briefs. Well, that and the fact Dean’s mechanic skills didn’t transfer to the fixing of white-goods. And they’ve got no money, so hiring a real plumber is out of the picture. Besides, Sam just knows Dean won’t go with that. Questioning of masculine power and all that crap he rolls his eyes at Dean for.  
  
So Sam’s the one stuck with jeans pressing against  _everything_  and attempting to keep at least some order in the place they’ve chosen to stay, while Dean sits in his room doing whatever it is Dean does. He’s been wanting a tv set for a while, maybe that’s where all their money went.  
  
“Dean - you could, y’know, rinse your plates or something?” Sam calls in the general direction of his brother’s room.  
  
There’s a muffled response of something, but nobody emerges from the closed door. Sam just sighs, angry now, and turns to the sink. Like some weird-ass odd-couple show and Sam’s starring the leading role of housewife. Great, just great. Always dreamed of this.  
  
Only there’s an issue when you play housewife and you’re wearing denim which may or may not - and it’s almost certainly the ‘may’, yeah - have shrunk in the wash, and that’s the fact it brushes against you.  _Everywhere_. And there’s only so much tugging Sam can on the way to complete his awkward walk from library to kitchen.  
  
Then, of course, Dean has left a pile of plates on the table and Sam is forced to lean over and pick them up, spiked sensation gripping from between his between his thighs and radiating upward to clench at his stomach. He re-adjusts, mentally curses Dean for being so lazy, and actually makes his way to the sink to add detergent, turn on water, and let it run over his hands. Dean’s found some great joy in mowing lawns, and Sam with washing dishes and letting hot water coat his hands. ‘Course he can’t tell Dean this, or  _housewife_  is going to become his permanent title.  
  
It’s then he realises he might, just might, have been wiser to consider that two wet hands plus too-tight jeans never equal anything right. And the way the sink is, all created for the _average sized man_ , doesn’t help matters. He’s leaning over awkwardly, and it’s like those jeans are deliberately out to mess with him. Positioned  _right there_  and Sam’s sure it’s like the itching powder prank - that Dean’s somewhere behind how fucking  _perfect_  (or imperfect, depending on how you’re looking at it) these jeans are sitting.  
  
He finishes the dishes, almost throwing the last plate down onto the sink, and ditches them all to dry because he’s given up on putting up with all this. Because, even with dry hands and re-adjustments, it’s  _not helping_. And he’s not hard, nope - not at all. He’s really not having to put up with the way it keeps  _pressing against his dick_. Sam flushes, shakes his head, and stalks with all purpose in the direction of the laundry.  
  
It’s only then Sam catches sight of Dean leaning against the doorframe of his room, beer held to his lips and something Sam decides to describe as  _impressed, smug, shit-eating grin_ , on his face. “Quite a show there, Sammy.”

He’s flushing again, clearing his throat and trying to turn from Dean. “Should learn to clean up your dirty dishes.”  
  
“But then I can’t watch you  _dance_.” Sam hears Dean swallow more of his beer. “Word to the wise, Sammy, take some lessons before you go pro at those nightclubs. Admire your practicality, though - we do need the cash.”  
  
Sam brushes past Dean, cheeks flaming now. And those  _fucking jeans_ , they just don’t know when to let up. The denim presses harder against Sam and now he’s even more constricted, everything below the waist taut and he bites down on his lip with every step. First stop when he has clean underwear - new jeans. Right now he’s actually fine with the idea of wearing the used forest-green boxer briefs of yesterday. Yeah, gross - but so’s this sensation.  
  
“Hey.” Dean’s hand connects with Sam’s arm and tugs him toward the door frame, forcing him to turn and face his brother. “Where you goin’?”  
  
“Well since you seem incapable of any laundry, guess that’s my job.” He says, forces himself to keep his voice and breathing even though he’s aware just how hard he really is, and that Dean’s got his leg dangerously close. He can feel the heat from the two of them and tries to pull away. “Dean --” he warns.  
  
“What, Sammy?” Dean’s asking, and he moves impossibly closer, leg pressed to the inside of Sam’s. He bites on his tongue, hard, and doesn’t let go, doesn’t even let himself  _blink_ , until Dean releases the grip on his arm and steps back. “‘kay, Sam. You go play housewife.” He slaps Sam’s arm and is back in his room before Sam can even wrap his head around what just happened.  
  
His dick is still throbbing.  _Fuck_.  
  
~ ~  
  
He doesn’t know why, won’t  _think_  about why, but he ditched the idea of laundry. Maybe it’s the kitchen that keeps calling him back, biological instinct to eat first, find comfort later. He should be laughing at the way he tries to make sense of it all.  _Cognitive dissonance_  - he thinks that’s the term he’s looking for, learnt it in one of Jess’ textbooks all those years ago. Knowing the term doesn’t change anything. Instead, he knows his face is pulled hard and he’s drying dishes, trying so very, very hard to not move in any way. Only he does move, when he leans to pick up another plate or fork, and there’s a seam  _right there_.   
  
At first he’s trying to ignore it, puts all the cutlery into drawers that require the least amount of movement, but then he’s left with the six plates -  _who knew two people could eat that much in three or four hours?_  - and Sam’s either going to leave them there or put them in a cupboard he has to reach up for. Never thought putting things away would require this much effort and thought process.   
  
Until now.  
  
Sam doesn’t know why he doesn’t just leave them, doesn’t go and demand Dean do something around here that isn’t reading when he’s forced or mowing lawn, but Sam takes a plate in hand, opens the door, and leans over to put them in the  _back_  of the cupboard. Couldn’t suppress the groan he lets out even if he tried.  
  
Follows with the second plate, third, and he’s having a hard time containing himself by the time he hits plate four. There’s a shiver, that’s all he can describe it as. Runs up and down his spine and curls around the pit of his stomach. Doesn't want to consider the idea that the feeling is actually  _good_  - shouldn’t be, really fucking shouldn’t be - and he goes for another plate. Maybe not such a good idea, maybe he should’ve got Dean to do this...and maybe he should be questioning just why the fuck he’s wearing jeans, and no underwear, and doing this. Only he doesn’t want to think about the answer, doesn’t want to consider--  
  
Hands, they reach out and run across his arms, moving up to wrap his neck, and lips soon join, pressing kisses to the side, up to under his ear. “Shh...”

No idea how Dean managed to make it across the kitchen without Sam hearing him, but then again he has been  _distracted_ , and Dean goes straight to it. Cups Sam’s crotch in his hand, presses the denim harder and Sam’s moaning, half into Dean’s mouth as they’re trying to press into a kiss.  
  
“‘bout time you did something about this,” Dean murmurs. His hand grips and Sam lets the plate fall back onto the sink with a clatter. Doesn’t break, but he’s hardly aware of it - doesn’t care at all. “So fucking hard.”  
  
Dean’s hand presses firmer into the fabric, each individual finger like a step up on Sam’s cock, ebbing through the denim and clenching, releasing, clenching. Sam leans back against Dean’s body, one of his hands moving down to grip into Dean’s thigh. The other, it snakes downward to find the zip of his fly and pull -- only then Dean’s stopping him, free hand pulling Sam’s away.  
  
“Uh-uh,” Dean murmurs, “Jeans stay on.”  
  
Dean grips him harder, rubs faster, and a sound tears through Sam’s throat before he can stop it - the accumulation of every step today, of every movement of the fabric - and it’s suddenly obvious how long this  _isn’t_  going to last.  
  
Sam tenses, his hand digging into Dean’s thigh and the rest of him is pressed into Dean’s steady hold of his body. He feels the pulses rush through his dick, stomach, and thighs as Dean’s hand continues to work, continues to press denim and come over Sam’s cock.  
  
It’s after Sam regains his bearings that he releases the hold on Dean, quickly turns around, and is stalking Dean across the length of the kitchen, slamming him into the wall and actually getting a good hold of his lips and the rest of his mouth. If Dean’s wanting to take all the control he’s not complaining now, mouth opening to Sam’s tongue and Sam’s sure,  _sure_ , he hears some needy moan mixed in with the heavy, short breathes they’re both taking in and pressing out.  
  
“This why you broke the machine?” Sam asks, holding Dean against the wall and kissing him before an answer can be formed.  
  
Dean pulls away. “No, but it makes for a nice consolation prize.”  
  
He’s got a wicked grin that Sam soon matches and he pulls his brother harder against him, hands lowering to fist into Dean’s shirt and letting his thumbs rub over his warm skin. Drops the shirt and moves lower still, fingers over Dean’s waistline, under the denim, and then --  
  
“Dude, what the fuck?” He pulls himself away, sizes Dean up.  
  
That wicked grin has returned to Dean’s face and it takes him less than a second to loosen the button on his jeans, pushes them down half an inch to reveal just what Sam was shocked to think he  _may_  have felt - and until just now he was pretty sure it was just some with his touch receptors or something - these  _frilly, lacy, deep-fucking-scarlet women’s underwear_  on his waistline, hanging over the edge of his jeans.  
  
“ _Why?_ ” It’s the only word Sam’s thinking which can be translated vocally. He’s still staring, can’t move his eyes from Dean’s waistband and there’s no way  _(none, nada, nofuckingwayinhell)_  that his cock’s started twitching in his pants.  
  
“Improvisation, Sammy!” Dean says, and then saunters from the room.


End file.
